It's been a little while, hasn't it? I'm not sure how more than two weeks have passed since I wrote last. I suppose I've had a lot going on and a lot on my mind (You would think that this would be my cue to write something groundbreaking or profound). Not so, not so.
Actually, I've been thinking about a pair of pants.
Do you have that pair of pants? You know, the pair that hugs you in all the right places, hides your flaws, accentuates your assets. Jeans, maybe. The fit is just right - EVEN out of the dryer. Perhaps you are the proud owner of the perfect little black dress or an impeccably-tailored power suit that just looks good or the classic shoe of all shoes.
Sadly, I have no idea what it's like to be you.
My pair of pants is ANYTHING but perfect. If you have known me for any length of time, you've seen the pants that I'm talking about. Through my days as a bachelorette, through marriage, three jobs, two pregnancies and two babies, who are now toddlers, I have shamelessly worn these tattered, elastic-wasted, stretched out, non-descript, shapeless, black-faded-to-something-not-so-black pants.
I'm that girl - the one you see in the grocery store with her nasty pants dragging on the floor. The one at whom you shake your head wondering how and why she made THE CHOICE to put on those raggedy knickers that do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for her. The walking, talking episode of What Not To Wear, proudly parading in a pathetic excuse for pants... yeah, that's me.
The worst part is that I KNOW. I can't blame it on ignorance. I KNOW. I know how horrible those pants looked three years ago, (let alone last week) yet I continued to wear them. Shameless.
The good news is that I decided enough's enough, while I was out one day last week. I bought not one, but THREE pairs of comfortable, yet practical workout pants to replace my vice. I made the call and told Paul that the end of an era had come. It was time for us to say goodbye. He actually squealed.
The bad news is that that was 10 days ago.
"I'll just wash them one more time, before I throw them away" I said to myself. Then I proceeded to stick them back in my drawer.
"I just have to wait until ARC or DAV or Salvation Army comes back to our neighborhood," I momentarily convinced myself.
"I'll just wear them when I paint," I even rationalized last night.
I guess you could say that I'm having a hard time letting go. Regretfully, I simply cannot promise that I will ever throw my pants away. With that said, however, should you ever see me walking around in public in those dilapidated black pants, you have my permission to smack me.